


We'll Get You Fixed Up in No Time

by foibles_fables



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Comfort/Family, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breathing lessons in a bathroom. Post-episode for 6.17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Get You Fixed Up in No Time

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> **Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**   
> **

**  
**Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**   
**

It doesn't take long for her to completely stop breathing.

It starts (or, rather, stops) with a half-exhaled sob, caught on a simultaneous gasping intake. A single sound with two distinct beats: out- _in_. Then, nothing.

And you're frozen there, clutching that flimsy paper towel in your hand, gazing warily at the crumpled figure in front of the door. Her shoulders are hunched and her legs are bent beneath her at angles that can't be comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, especially against the unforgiving tile floor. Her chest heaves beneath her hand, straining noiselessly, desperate for the relief of a breath but something's lost, something's not working. Something inside is broken. So her lungs sound an alarm, and her chest starts heaving harder, quicker, and you can almost hear bones splintering and ribs cracking as they struggle against the intense force.

A few more useless convulsions and her other hand flies to her throat, grasping it in panic. Her head snaps upward; wide, surprised, red-rimmed eyes meet yours when once again she tries to breathe and it won't happen. Her skin grows paler and paler until it nearly matches the dull color of the tiles beneath her.

More tears spill over, terrified now, lightheaded; eyes, attached to yours, seem to beg _please_ ; if she doesn't calm down she's going to pass out.

And you can't just stand by and let that happen. What kind of sister would she be if she let Lexie collapse on the bathroom floor?

"Lexie." You approach her, ignoring the terrible noise her throat's making as it tries urgently to bring in air. Again. " _Lexie_."

She doesn't seem to respond to the proximity change; her eyes are still crazy, searching, downright scared. Dark, matted eyelashes glisten with the remnants of tears. You kneel in front of her. You won't hug her. But you'll place your hands on her hot, flushed, tear-soaked cheeks and force her to look into your eyes. She grabs your wrist, cold fingers holding tight, pressing white patterns into your skin. _Help me_. She's obviously never hyperventilated before. She chokes a little on nothing, and you hope she doesn't aspirate, because then a gag reflex will come into play and it won't be very pretty at all.

This is something you remember, caught in old photographs and film-grain clarity. A time you'd rather not revisit. Old ladies dying and supply closets and a very married man with a paper bag. The words you coughed out, on loneliness. Been there, done that. But it's all new to her: the asphyxiation, the pressure in her lungs, the head-swimming. Months' worth of denial, loneliness, and denial of loneliness bursting forth in one fell swoop.

Very few things in your life are classic-definition appropriate, especially when it comes to _her_.

But maybe it's appropriate that she has you right now.

You don't have a paper bag to give her. She'll have to do it on her own.

"Breathe," you say, authoritative, clear-voiced. She's shaking underneath your palms. You tuck blonde hair behind her ear, smoothing it out, fingertips resting gently against her temple. "Breathe. Come on, now. Breathe."

Her grip on your wrist relaxes. "In and out." She tries. You try to transfer calm through your hands. Her face is on fire. She hiccups, and that's a start. "Good," you tell her, nodding in affirmation. Small steps. "Again. In and out." You can't help but feel a little ridiculous because you're almost making it sound like she's in labor, but you suppose that comes with the job.

A little more air this time. She shudders. Her eyelids flutter shut for a split second. "Breathe."

You think it might be working. Apparently, there's a lot riding on its success.

In and out. She coughs loudly.

"Good. Again."

In a different life, maybe you would have already done this for her before.

"That's it. Easy." You try as hard as you can to make your voice gentle, soothing. "Again." She swallows and whimpers, something that was impossible just a moment ago.

A few more repetitions and everything's almost okay. Her breathing is shallow but regular, with a slight wheeze on the exhale. You've prompted her to move, slide to the wall and rest her back against it. You sit next to her. Her head is on your shoulder – blonde hair spills on your scrubs, and, from this angle, dark roots are easy to see. And that's when you know, yeah, this is Lexie.

She's quiet, swollen-eyed. You remember the headache: that unbearable pressure behind the eyes. Too many tears lost, too many moments without oxygen. Dizzy. Every shift of her position (and yours, for that matter) is punctuated with a tiny moan. Shaky breath in, whining exhale out. She's tired, you can tell. Her head droops every so often and her fists relax, releasing handfuls of your shirt. She just wants to sleep. But she can't sleep here. Not with you, on the bathroom floor, even though you've already cautiously texted Cristina and told her to stand guard in front of the door (because, really, the two of you are probably a sight to see right now, huddled under the automatic drier).

Lexie will have to leave this bathroom eventually. She'll have to go out there and deal, Mark with Teddy and everything else that will ever hurt her. You had to leave your supply closet. Life's unfair like that.

And suddenly, a part of you that you weren't aware of until this very second is excised, cut away, leaving a jagged edge and openended feelings. Sudden loss of something you didn't know you wanted. Somehow, it hurts more than it could have if you had known about it.

You can't follow her when she does leave. You can't be there to tell her to breathe, all the time. It causes more of a pang in your heart than you think it should.

You could talk to her now, though. You could say how everything's going to be okay and that she'll feel better soon. You could smile. You could throw every reassuring saying and idiom you know at her. But you know they'll sound clichéd. Speaking from experience, chances are they're downright untrue. You can't lie to her.

So you keep quiet. But you stay there with her, gently stroking her hair, perhaps trying to imply to her what she is and what she isn't.

You'll sit here with her until she figures out how to stand up on her own again. You'll help her in the direction of the door.

And when she steps through, into that world that has finally shown her how cruel it can be, you'll take a step back and watch.

And when she manages to walk on her own, maybe you'll be proud or something.


End file.
